


Small Deaths

by Interrobam



Series: Cindy and Meg [2]
Category: Cinderella (1950), Hercules (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Community: disney_kink, Crimes & Criminals, F/F, Fluff and Angst, bonnie and clyde - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrobam/pseuds/Interrobam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cindy knew it had to end eventually. Her life had been hard and broken like a bullet in bone, cold and lonely for far too long to pretend what she and Meg had together would carry them into their old age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Deaths

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Disney Animated Kink Meme.

Cindy knew it had to end eventually. Her life had been hard and broken like a bullet in bone, cold and lonely for far too long to pretend what she and Meg had together would carry them into their old age. They had their fans, everyone with the guts to pick up a BAR and take what the banks had stolen from them first had their fans, but they were two young girls. Pretty girls. It was different for them: all sex and patronization, all photography and eyes on their garters, all autographs and rumors. No one suspected how deep it went. No one looked at the way they spoke to each other, the way their eyes touched, and saw what was under the surface. Cindy almost wished they did.

They could not count the police among their fans. Nor the CIA, so embarrassed by the women's success that they resorted to hiring some fresh faced kid, some man named Herc, to find them. Cindy had little doubt he could, little doubt he would. Already their stays in hotels were few and far between, their nights in the V-8 more and more common. Picking up their laundry made her blood run thin, the eyes of every pedestrian she passed felt heavy and hard with judgment. One night the misfit criminals were bold enough to stay at a motel. At midnight they came under ambush: they shot their way out with only the clothes on their back. The police took the negatives to their photos, Cindy's silver shoes. The next day the newspaper came out with Herc's face plastered all over it, his hands holding the heels in display. His knuckles were white, like he was trying to strangle her though her possessions. Like he was the master of some arcane, telekinetic ritual.

“It's just clothes honey, it's just pictures.” Meg put her hand firmly to her lover's back.

“They were mine, they were _ours_.” Cindy's voice was strange to her, she could not force out what she meant behind it. She felt the tension in Meg's fingers through her dress. On the next day over, in the next town over, Meg went out and bought her another pair of shoes. Cindy threw them at her head and told her she was a dang fool for doing something so brazen, for nearly getting them caught again, for nearly dying. A dang idiot of a woman. She refused to wear them for nearly a month.

“Come on honey, just try them on.” They were driving through Louisiana when Cindy gave in, when she pulled open the box and fit the blue silk heels over her torn stockings. Anything to make Meg drop the subject and concentrate on the road, anything to keep her lover's mind one step ahead, one bank ahead, of the man holding her shoes on the front page of the daily.

“There. You happy?” Meg gave her that little smirk, that little smudge of red, that made it so impossible to stay angry at her, before turning back to the road.

“I'm happy.” There was a truck, stopped akimbo on the side of the road, and Meg moved her Old Gold Regular impatiently to the side of her mouth as she eased off the gas.

The first shot rang out so hot, it sounded like a scream.

~

Meg knew it had to end eventually. They had to keep moving: road to road, town to town, bed to bed. There was no resting, no settling down, and Meg laughed to remember she once thought herself used to it. It is easy to be used to a shiftless life when you're alone, when you restrain yourself to one night stands and petty thievery. Old dogs, new tricks. It made her uncomfortable to think how much had changed since she stopped in that run down diner. Cindy's body was as familiar to her as her own now, but the rooms they shared them in were always strange, always new. It felt wrong: an optical illusion, a picture made up of negative space, an impossible cube. If she was ever going to get a good night's sleep again, she'd have to warp the images of their relationship into cohesion.

One night Cindy and Meg found their Ford in familiar waters, and they stayed the uneasy night with Meg's sister. The woman came up to her after a long night of drinking, of forgetting fear and celebrating life, and squeezed her shoulder.

“She's a real peach Megara.” Jessie didn't need to say anything else. There were so many gaps in their relationship: their parents rejection, her move to the city, her life of secret passions. The money and lives she stole. It only took five words to fill them all in.

“Don't I know it.” Meg smiled her thin smile and ached, so briefly but so strongly, to stay there forever. To settle down once and for all: the picket fence, the kids running in the yard, the breadlines. The crabapple tree, the mended socks, the small town store where people know you by face, not poster. Meg wanted all of it. Meg wanted so many things she felt like she could swallow the world. 

Old dogs, new tricks. They had to keep moving.

In the morning though, in the morning. That night, the only night in the history of their love that they spent in a room Meg knew, she could feel the pieces fall into place. Somewhere between the familiar books on the shelf and the skin on Cindy's innermost thigh, somewhere between the family portraits looking down on them in scorn and the chipped smile on her lover's face, it started making sense. It started mending itself together. They moved to each other's musculature, seeking out elusive, tempting relief. Meg came first: la petite mort, the only resolution she felt secure enough to accept. Her entire body tensed and released, she shook like a tumbleweed. Cindy laughed, their practice had made her clever at the other woman's flesh. Meg clucked back.

“My turn.” She pounced, making the bed squeal in protest, and kissed a hot wet line down the center of her lover's stomach. 

Cindy cried out so sharp, it sounded like a bullet.


End file.
